Four Varieties Of Mustard
by CuttlefishRock
Summary: Unfortunately, there are no cases available, and Sherlock is being a rather high-maintenance -but ultimately marvellous- flat-mate... Written for Lauren xxx
1. Chapter 1

**My first Sherlock fanfic, but probably not the last. Hope you like it :) **

**Disclaimer: I own the memory of some of these events, but unfortunately not the characters.**

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><p><span>Four Varieties Of Mustard<span>

It was 2.43am.

The flat was completely dark, save the single lamp in the bathroom. It stood on a tiny, ornate table next to the large, free-standing bath in the centre of the room.

A tall, lean man wearing only a black trilby hat and a pair of formal black trousers lay in the bath, smoking a long, thin cigarette.

The man in the bath blew out a lungful of smoke which smelt of tobacco, cinnamon and burnt cloves. He sat up to pick up an opened bottle of red wine off the floor. He raised the bottle to his chapped lips and took a long gulp, and then slid back down into the cool water, resting the bottle upon his raised knee. He took another drag from his cigarette, staring into space.

The door to the flat banged open."Sherlock?"

Sherlock glared up at the ceiling, before replacing the bottle upon the floor by one of the bath's clawed feet.

"Lestrade called. Wants to know why you haven't been answering your mobile. He didn't sound worried, just curious." John continued to talk to the detective despite the one-sidedness of the conversation. He was rummaging in the fridge. "What's this meant to be?"

"Guacamole," Sherlock replied, taking a deep drag from his cigarette.

"You forgot to put in the avocado."

"I know," said Sherlock, matter-of-factly, "but it was going off."

"Marvellous." John paused, and Sherlock could hear him rustling through the contents of the kitchen. "We have... three -no, four- varieties of mustard, half a tin of baked beans, an egg, peanut butter, half a jar of olives, balsamic vinegar, pesto, thirteen bottles of beer, grapefruit juice, half a chocolate cake..."

He moved onto the cupboards. "A tin of tuna. Another two jars of mustard. Beans. Three more cartons of grapefruit juice. Teabags. Coffee. Herbal tea. Sugar. A bottle of whiskey."

He dared to look in the freezer. "Ice-cream. Two bottles of vodka."

"This is bloody awful!" He wandered into the bathroom, carrying a bottle of beer. "What are you doing?"

"It's your turn to go shopping," announced Sherlock, staring up at the ceiling.

"Is not."

"Then we shall continue to graze on the condiments."

"I often wonder how you survived by yourself before I moved in," John mused, cracking open his bottle, and sitting down in the wooden chair next to the bath.

Sherlock fixed him with a steady look. "What makes you think that I survived by myself?"

"Your presence?"

Sherlock snorted. "Mycroft."

"Ah."

"He would show up once a week to throw away my milk and bread, and restock my tins. Thursdays, 6.10pm." Sherlock dropped the butt of his cigarette into the bath water, and immediately lit another.

"Makes sense."

"Of course it doesn't."

"Why are you smoking again?" John inquired.

"Three-patch problems are hard to break," replied Sherlock, reaching blindly for the bottle of wine again. "Anyway, Lestrade?"

"An abduction, apparently."

"Details, John."

"The girlfriend of a restaurant owner-"

"No."

John stared at him in utter confusion. "What?"

"You heard me."

"I heard, but I don't understand."

"He's behind on his illegal loan, of course. The abduction is a false claim to get the money, and get rid of the loan shark. Honestly, John..."

"Right."

Sherlock tilted his head back against the edge of the bath, staring up at the ceiling. "Any more cases?"

"If you would answer Lestrade's calls, maybe you wouldn't be so bored."

"My phone was in the other room."

John raised a disbelieving eyebrow. "Of course."

"Speaking of which..."

"No," said John.

Sherlock sat upright again, looking surprised. "I haven't finished yet."

"You don't need to. You want me to go and fetch your phone. I am not a Labrador."

"I never claimed anything of the sort. The simple fact is that I am currently in the bath-"

"And you have been for..." John tested the temperature of the bathwater with his hand, "... most of the day, judging by the temperature of the water, and the wrinkliness of your fingertips."

"It's an experiment," Sherlock insisted.

"Everything for you is an experiment."

"Your problem being?" He took a drag from his cigarette.

"That you can't be bothered to walk seven steps in order to get your phone."

Sherlock shrugged. "Fine. I'll wrinkle and eat mustard."

His phone beeped with a new text in the other room.

"Mycroft will wonder why I'm not opening my texts soon, and come over. Maybe he'll be more sympathetic."

"I'm sure."

Sherlock stared longingly at the table in the living room, on which his mobile lay, the screen lit up.

"If you're the intrigued, then go and get it," John advised.

"I'm not intrigued; I'm enjoying my relaxing bath."

John snorted, and finished his bottle. "I'll leave you to it, then." He stood up to leave the bathroom.

"John, while you're up and getting another-"

"No. No, I'm not getting it." He sat down again firmly.

"John, you want another bottle of beer."

"One will suffice. I am content."

"Are you, though? Really?" Sherlock unleashed his wide, curious eyes upon the good doctor.

"I can assure you that I am." John picked up the magazine at the top of the pile next to the sink, and began to read.

"John?"

Pause.

"John?"

…

"John, I'm going to get my phone from the living room. Would you like a beer while I'm up?"

"If you're going that way," said John, breezily, without taking his eyes from the page.

Sherlock set his cigarette on his lip, and raised his arms out of the water to allow him to hoist himself out of the bath.

He stepped out; his drenched black trousers dripping onto the worn bathmat. He dropped his cigarette into the bath, and steadied himself using the sink for support.

"My legs seem to be affected," he observed, moving his toes experimentally.

"Hmm."

"I doubt I'll make it to the living room." He took an uncertain step. "I may have to crawl." He swayed dangerously. "John, lend me your arm."

With a heavy sigh, John stood, and allowed Sherlock to put his weight on his shoulders.

Looking oddly like they were involved in a three-legged race, they manouvered their way through to the living room, where Sherlock gracefully collapsed onto the sofa.

"John, be a good chap and fetch the blanket from my bed, else I fear I may get hypothermia."

"It would be your own fault. And I thought you offered me a beer?"

"In the fridge; do help yourself. You live here, you know, I shouldn't treat you like a guest." Sherlock reached blindly for his phone; his hand a pale spider on the low coffee table. He read the text with disdain, and replaced it. "John, please, the blanket – my toes have gone."

Reluctantly, John fetched the blanket, his own beer, and the magazine he had been reading. He turned the light on, and Sherlock made a loud noise of complaint. In retaliation, John deposited the blanket directly onto the detective's face.

At last, John settled down into his armchair, and reopened the old magazine, quite content.

Three minutes later, and Sherlock had grown bored of staring aimlessly at the ceiling.

"Tea would be nice, John."

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><p><strong>Like it? Dislike it? Favourite line? Want to hear more? Press that button below and leave me some notes :)<strong>

**xXx**


	2. Chapter 2

**Many thanks for the response to the first chapter :) Loves xXx. Admittedly, this is a short chapter, but the next one will be longer. Pinky Promise and all that shit.  
><strong>

**Disclaimer: I own the memory of some of these events, but unfortunately not the characters.**

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><p><span>Four Varieties of Mustard<span>

It was 6.31am._  
><em>

_John, bring me a tissue ASAP. SH_

"Why should I?" John demanded, from his bedroom.

_I was drinking wine in bed and spilt some on my chest. SH_

"Then clean yourself up!"

_I guided it into my bellybutton but now I don't know what to do. SH_

"For fuck's sake..." John pushed himself out of his bed, abandoning his book and mobile in the process. He journeyed to Sherlock's room via the bathroom, and threw a wad of tissue at Sherlock, who caught it deftly.

He lay atop the blankets of his bed -shirtless- with a deep red stain of wine gathered on his pale chest. "Took your time," Sherlock muttered, mopping up the liquid. "Last I read the dictionary, 'ASAP' meant 'as soon as possible', not 'dissect and question the request until it is nearly too late to avoid the inevitable'."

"You're welcome," grumbled John, irritated that his peaceful Sunday morning had been disturbed in such an unnecessary manner.

"I hardly interrupted anything," Sherlock insisted, sitting up.

"It is a Sunday morning," announced John. "It is my god-given right as an Englishman to lay on my couch or bed, and complete _The Times_ crossword!"

"It's my couch," murmured Sherlock, mildly, taking a messy gulp of wine.

"Why are you drinking so early?"

"You have your Sunday ritual; I have mine."

"Of course." John leant against the door-frame; watching his room-mate with something akin to fondness, despite the said room-mate's irritating qualities.

"Besides; you haven't yet left the flat, so you don't have The Times yet."

"I'm also still in my pyjamas," John reminded him, with a half-smile.

Sherlock fluttered a dismissive hand. "Why is there such a social taboo on wearing pyjamas outside the house?"

"I'm not debating with you so early in the morning," John informed him, quite sternly. He disappeared into the kitchen to make himself a mug of tea.

"John!"

John sighed, and returned to Sherlock's room. "What?"

Sherlock made a disbelieving noise, and scrambled across his bed to sit at the end of it, red tartan-clad legs crossed, looking decidedly impish. "John, consider: supermarkets are open 24 hours these days. If your work hours are so antisocial that you are forced to do your shopping at 3am, then who is to tell you that your trousers too closely resemble pyjamas to be socially acceptable?"

"I doubt that would cross anyone's mind," said John, sitting down upon the desk, "especially if said antisocial person was being antisocial enough to use a self-service till."

"Why, then, would it be utterly unacceptable for someone else to wear pyjamas to one at, say, 10am?"

"Because most people are dressed by 10am."

"Pyjama-ed people are dressed," Sherlock scolded him.

"Depends on the nature of the pyjamas."

"Perhaps," Sherlock mused, one hand drifting over to the cigarette packet next to his bed, seemingly of its own accord.

John followed its progress with a pointed stare, and Sherlock slapped his own wandering hand sharply.

John grinned. He finished his tea. "I'm going to get dressed, and go and buy _The Times_. Anything for you?"

"Three apples, a tin of mushy peas, and some mints," Sherlock requested, leaning over the side of his bed to recover his violin from the floor.

"You're serious?"

Sherlock surveyed him through slightly slitted eyes. "Deadly." He began to play 'Hickory Dickory Dock' on the violin.

John took some money from Sherlock's desk, and ignored the cry of outrage as he went to go and get dressed.

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><p><strong>Notes? I respond :)<br>**

**xXx**


	3. Chapter 3

**Twas my 18th birthday two days ago. I am writing this as I prepare for yet another night of highly excessive drinking. Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: don't own, but wish I did. I now own the DVD, though...**

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><p>"A drunk old woman once broke my nose because she thought I was stealing my own car."<p>

John was simultaneously nursing a split lip whilst holding a blood-stained tissue to his nose.

Sherlock was unsympathetic. "Why did you look so suspicious in the first place, then?"

"I couldn't help it. She was drunk, and I'd just dropped my keys."

"So, what happened today?" Sherlock inquired, sounding beyond bored as he flicked through John's copy of The Times without interest.

"Security guard."

Sherlock made a disbelieving noise. "You face-planted," he declared.

"I did not!" John exclaimed, but the tips of his ears turned red.

"Wow. Well done. Proud of you." Sherlock returned to the paper and scoffed at an article in the business section. "Clearly, I can't let you out alone. Especially on a Sunday morning. Far too dangerous."

"I'm an adult, Sherlock, and you're hardly fit to babysit me."

The enigmatic detective peered over the top of the newspaper. "Meaning?"

"You're an intelligent man; you work it out," John grumbled, snatching the newspaper back onto the rightful place on his lap. He shook out the ruffled pages so that they settled correctly over his knees.

Sherlock picked up the carrier bag with John's other purchases inside. He popped a mint into his mouth, placed two apples on the coffee table, and began to toss and catch the third. "Where are my mushy peas?"

"You don't even like mushy peas," said John, mildly, as he took up a pen to do the crossword with.

"Yes, I do," Sherlock objected, pausing his toying with the apple to glare at his flat-mate.

"You just squash them on the side of your plate," John reminded him.

"I like to do that," said Sherlock, resuming his catching game.

"You asked me to buy you mushy peas for the pure intention of mushing them further?"

"Yes."

John shook his head, ruffled his newspaper rather unnecessarily, and cursed lowly when a drop of blood from his nose fell onto the puzzle page.

"John, you are simply not in a state to do that crossword," announced Sherlock, whipping the newspaper out of John's flailing hands. "Besides, they are a ridiculous way to waste time."

"Read them out," John requested, clamping a new wad of tissue to his nose.

Sherlock simply scoffed, but John was insistent.

"Sherlock, you can't confiscate my paper and then refuse to help me to do my Sunday morning ritual," John challenged him.

Sherlock gave him a long, strange look, before holding his hand out for the pen.

John eagerly surrendered it, and watching with amazement as Sherlock carefully folded the large puzzle page in half, and settled it on his knee.

"_Be about to happen_," Sherlock announced. He looked expectantly at his companion.

"_Approximately_?"

"No." The pen was poised.

"Well, how many letters?"

"Six."

John considered. "_Almost. _Or _nearly_."

"Well, which?" Sherlock demanded, impatiently.

"What's one of the clues down from it? Then we can work it out."

"What's the point of that?"

"Just... read the clue, Sherlock."

"_From within_."

John thought for a moment. "Letters?"

"Seven."

"_Content_?"

"No," said Sherlock, sounding bored.

"Why not?"

"Latin," said Sherlock.

John looked baffled. "We'll come back to that one... unless you have any ideas?"

"_Ab intra_." He wrote it in.

"You said it was seven letters."

"Two plus five is seven. Honestly, John..." He moved onto the next clue. "_Isolated US state_. Six letters."

"Do you know that?" John asked, sounding slightly bemused.

"I know London. America holds little interest to me."

"_Alaska_."

"_Jupiter's number of moons_."

John smirked. "Feel free to answer that one yourself."

"John." Sherlock sounded irritated.

"_Sixty-four_."

"Hmm." Sherlock penned in the answer with obvious distaste. "Have you heard from Lestrade?"

"Wants your help tomorrow with a nice murder."

"How is it interesting?"

"Curious blood-splatter."

"Wonderful," said Sherlock, brightening considerably. "John, _divergent_?"

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><p><strong>Thoughts?<strong>


	4. Chapter 4

**Sorry for the little wait, but tried to research as best I could for this chapter. Also, 'c' key on my keyboard is a bit iffy. Grumbles.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own these marvellous characters, but I love them as much as my goldfish and Jack Daniels.**

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><p>"This really isn't your proper area, is it, John?" Sherlock mused, as they stood outside the latest crime-scene, waiting for Lestrade to come up and meet them.<p>

"How so?"

"As a doctor, the only reason you would look at bloodstains is to determine how much blood has been lost from the victim, before quickly moving on."

"True, unless I am feeling more curious," said John, fiddling with the button on his coat.

"So your knowledge of bloodstain pattern analysis is...?"

"Feeble, but not nil."

"Good," said Sherlock.

Lestrade called over, and they walked into the house, and into the living room.

Sherlock crouched down, his eyes drinking in the blood-soaked scene with cool interest. After a few minutes of silent deliberation, he cleared his throat. "The killer entered through the window; you can see the disturbances in the dust on the window sill. The victim was unaware at first, as the killer had enough time to get behind her, here-" He moved forward a few steps. "-and make his first attack... where?" He held out an expectant hand, and John hastily placed the crime-scene photographs into the detective's hand.

Sherlock considered the photograph of the corpse. "Slash to the back, from left to right, to announce his presence."

"Why left to right?" Lestrade inquired, quietly.

Sherlock fluttered the photographs impatiently. "He was right-handed, easier that way. Also, if she had noticed him before he could strike a blow and screamed, he could have easily knocked her out with a quick blow to the head. Do keep up, Lestrade." He tutted. "Where was I?"

"So, he made the first blow," Lestrade prompted, scribbling in his notebook.

"She turned, to face him. He grabbed her arms -hence the bruising- and he pushed her up against the wall; you see now why the diagonal blood-mark on the wall. They spoke; he must have wanted to speak to her, else he would have simply killed her outright." Sherlock peered closely at the wall. "Smudged. She struggled. He fell backwards, onto the floor." He knelt down on the wooden floor, and touched the tip of his finger to a black mark. "She ran for the door. He grabbed her foot. She fell on top of him."

"You're speculating," murmured Lestrade.

Sherlock turned to him sharply. "Marks from the heels of her boots," he said, indicating the marks. "Pointing towards the door. She was pulled backwards, not forwards, so it isn't the mark of an earlier trip."

Lestrade made a sour face. "Continue."

"He grabbed her hair to pull her to her feet. Held the knife to her throat. That was when he made the cuts across her cheekbones; to warn her not to scream, to mock her by making them look like tears. He wanted to scare her."

"If you attack someone, you usually want to freak them out," put-in Lestrade, grumpily.

"Quite," said Sherlock, dryly. "Then he stabbed her in the stomach. He held her as she dropped to the floor." He referred to the photograph again. "Her lipstick is smudged, mixed with blood. I think he regretted it then, touched her face with his bloody hand. Kissed her. Then-"

"Broke her neck to end her suffering," finished John, quietly.

"So, we're looking for a jealous ex," summarised Lestrade.

"Undoubtedly," said Sherlock, giving the photographs back to the police officer. "Good luck."

"Hang on!" called Lestrade.

Sherlock paused in the doorway, and turned back to face Lestrade.

"This blood-stain; did the killer cut himself or is it some splatter from her?" he inquired, indicating a cluster of four small spots near the window on the floor.

"Drips from the knife."

"Which is where, now?"

Sherlock tilted his head in a terribly enigmatic manner. "In the toilet tank or the cutlery drawer."

"Anderson!" Lestrade called, and the thorn in Sherlock's side skulked into the room. "Check the cutlery drawer and the toilet tank for the murder weapon, please."

Anderson obliged, not bothering to spare John or Sherlock a glance, and they soon heard his voice from the bathroom. "Got it."

"And the kitchen drawer?" Sherlock inquired.

Anderson put his head around the door to look at the consulting detective. He dangled the blood-stained knife at him. "What part of this isn't clear enough to you?"

"Just check the damn drawer," Lestrade requested, with a tired sigh.

Anderson disappeared into the kitchen, and returned with a small, blood-stained photograph of the victim and an unknown man.

"I assume that the award congratulating my sheer brilliance is already in the post?" Sherlock inquired of Lestrade, sweetly.

"Indeed," sneered Anderson, despite the fact that he looked terribly awestruck.

Sherlock swept from the room, closely followed by John.

"John, you're a terrible influence on me," Sherlock announced, as they walked down the darkened street.

"How so?" John inquired.

"You're making me... nicer. I didn't enjoy that murder case at all."

"Good."

"John!" Sherlock chided. "This is my job! What next? Will I... faint at the sight of blood? How ridiculously annoying. I'll never be able to solve another case."

"So, how do we restore your hard-heartedness?" John inquired.

"I'm open to suggestions."

John considered. "Pint?"

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><p><strong>Thoughts? xXx<strong>


	5. Chapter 5

**Hi there, thanks for the reviews and alerts and favourites and love in general :) Here's another chapter for you all, hope you like it!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. I do own a mischievious cactus and fourteen completed scrapbooks.**_  
><em>

_Need coffee? MH_

"Owwwww," Sherlock groaned, shielding the blue light emitting from his phone screen with his left hand. He sat up gingerly, and examined his surroundings.

He was lying on the kitchen floor; that much was evident from the table legs and aroma of burnt toast. He looked to the clock on the wall. 7:05. His eyes flickered to the window. Faintly dark. He couldn't tell if it was AM or PM.

"John?" he croaked, from his seat on the floor; he didn't quite trust his legs yet.

John emerged from his bedroom, looking bleary-eyed but otherwise in good condition. "Good morning."

"Is it?" Sherlock inquired, struggling to his feet using the cupboards as leverage. "Sherlock disagrees. He is in pain."

John cocked an eyebrow as he filled the kettle with water. "Why are you speaking in third person?"

"Because Sherlock is so hungover that he doesn't want to be himself any more." Sherlock perched himself on the draining board, and clicked his back loudly. "Why did you let me sleep on the kitchen floor?" he demanded, wincing as John boiled the kettle.

"I tried to move you," said John, mildly, as he rinsed out two mugs, "but you kept throwing eyes at me whenever I came close. You said that the tiles were too beautiful for you to move."

"Sounds mildly familiar," acknowledged Sherlock, as his eyes scanned the floor for any miscellaneous eyeballs.

"I gathered them up again," said John, gesturing towards the jar in the microwave. "Your aim was quite appalling, but they all landed in more or less the same area. Tea?"

"Good." Sherlock surveyed his bare toes.

John placed a teabag and a splash of milk in each mug.

"How did we even get home last night?" Sherlock inquired, after a pause.

"You called Lestrade's mobile. He came to pick us up, but insisted on photographs." John poured boiling water into the mugs.

"Hmm... I'll have to hack into his phone..." muttered Sherlock, scowling.

John removed the teabags, handed Sherlock a mug, and sat down at the table, his legs neatly crossed. "What are we doing today, then?"

_You are required. 13:20. MH_

"We have six hours to waste. What do regular hungover people usually do?" Sherlock asked.

"Sleep? Moan? Vow to never drink again? Try to remember the previous night?" John suggested.

"Boring," said Sherlock, dismissively.

"Bacon sandwiches?"

Sherlock's nose twitched. "I could be persuaded."

xXx

"John!" Sherlock burst through the bathroom door, shaking a letter excitedly in his hand.

John spat out his toothpaste, and glared at the enigmatic detective in the mirror. "What's that?"

"John, someone sent me a death threat! Isn't that wonderful? Another enemy!" Sherlock was positively beaming.

John thought he might kiss the letter from happiness. "And you're not at all worried?"

"Worried?" Sherlock scoffed.

"Well, what does it say?" John demanded, turning and leaning against the sink, toothbrush abandoned.

"'Holmes; don't get involved in your brother's case. If you do, you'll end up like the last dead body.' Isn't the grammar good?"

"Yes, Sherlock, the grammar is correct. Are you going to pay heed to the message?"

Sherlock gave him a judgemental look. "John, don't say such stupid things, or you'll give Anderson a run for his money."

John spluttered.

"Let's form _words,_ yes? And then get a cab to meet Mycroft."

"Why are you so excited about this?" John demanded, rinsing his toothbrush under the tap before replacing it in the holder.

"If they're already warning me off it, it must be a good one," explained Sherlock, striding purposefully into the living room. He picked his scarf up from the arm of the sofa, and knotted it about his neck.

John quickly went to his room, pulled on two odd socks, and tried to locate his shoes.

Sherlock slipped his coat on, and tapped his foot impatiently. "John!"

John managed to locate one shoe in his room, and the other on the kitchen counter. "Coming, coming..."

Sherlock was out of the flat, and in the cab by the time John stumbled down the steps; his coat dangling off one arm.

"Where are we going?" John asked, as he slid into the back seat beside the detective.

"Oval Road, Camden."

**Thoughts?**


	6. Chapter 6

**Hi there :) Another case for you all, followed by banter.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. I simply own many empty bottles of Jack Daniels and too many books to count.**

Seven minutes later, and they were driving along Oval Road.

"Just by Pirate Castle, please," said Sherlock, to the cab driver.

The cab pulled over smoothly, and John paid the driver. They exited, and Sherlock took out his phone to check the time. 13.13.

"I hate being early," Sherlock mused, pocketing his phone when he noticed severe lack of signal. "It's boring."

"It's better than being late," John informed him, peering around for some hint of why they were here.

"Debatable." Sherlock thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his coat, and began to walk up the pavement. Without a glance, he crossed the road at a brisk pace, and came to a halt next to a brick wall, overlooking the river. He gazed unblinkingly into the depths.

John leant against the wall. "Why here, precisely?"

"Mycroft and I used to come here often."

"What's the appeal?"

"A two minute walk from here is the Chin Chin Lab," announced Sherlock.

John offered a confused face in return.

"It's a liquid nitrogen ice-cream parlour."

"Those actually exist?"

"They do," replied Sherlock, still staring out over the river. "We were curious. It wasn't boring."

"Sounds..."

"A lot unlike tea?" Sherlock suggested, with a small smirk.

"Entirely too strange for a Tuesday afternoon."

"One day we'll go there," mused Sherlock, turning around to lounge against the wall, "but not today. _El Diablo _comes."

John hiccuped in order to choke back a laugh as Mycroft Holmes strolled up the road; umbrella swinging freely in his right hand. He wore an immaculate three-piece suit, probably Italian.

"You have twenty seconds to interest me," Sherlock announced to his elder brother.

Mycroft surveyed the enigmatic detective with an expression of displeased affection for a moment, like a puppy who had chewed the corner of an inexpensive cushion. "IC1 male, 6' tall, weighing 196lbs, professional bouncer. No marks on the body."

"None?"

"None," Mycroft confirmed. "Shall we?"

Sherlock accepted the invitation with a slight tilt of his head, and he and John followed Mycroft into his waiting car.

A short while later, they arrived at Scotland Yard.

"Lestrade, your servant," announced Mycroft upon entry to the morgue, to the Detective Inspector, who actually groaned.

"We're fine without him!" Lestrade protested.

"You are already utterly stumped," Mycroft reminded him.

Sherlock ignored both his brother and Lestrade, instead walking over to the body. "John?"

John joined him, and looked down at to the muscle-bound man on the cold slab.

"Cause of death?"

"Fracture of the fourth cervical vertebrae and resultant asphyxiation from severe damage to the spinal cord," said John, after a brief examination.

"A broken neck," summarised Sherlock.

"Yes."

"You seem perplexed, John."

"There's no massive trauma to the head." He snapped on the rubber gloves that Lestrade passed to him, and began a closer examination. "The wounds are all... irregular, and the only fractures are to the nasal bone." He looked closely. "No paint, wood, rust. Just dirt."

"Have fun," Mycroft said, before exiting the room, whistling.

"So, what do you make of it?" Lestrade asked of John, who stood up straight, pondering.

"No object appears to have been used to apply the blow," said John.

"So, the torn scalp and ear?"

"Someone did this with their bare hands," said Sherlock.

"Jesus Christ. You think it's the Black Lotus Tong again?" Lestrade asked.

"No symbols," muttered Sherlock, deep in thought.

"It takes a lot of strength or skill for someone to break a man's neck. Who could physically do this?" John inquired.

"He was a bouncer," said Lestrade. "Maybe he pissed off a clubber."

"Likely. Who?" mused Sherlock.

"We haven't looked through much CCTV yet."

John was still examining the corpse on the table. "Lestrade, Mycroft said that there were no prints on the body."

"None that we can use as evidence. Why?"

"Can you take a fingerprint from an earlobe?"

Lestrade scoffed lightly. "That's CSI stuff, Doctor."

John frowned at the Inspector, and fell silent.

Sherlock looked expectantly at his flatmate. "John? Whenever you feel like continuing...?"

"Lestrade's right – I'm not a professional; I've just watched a lot of CSI and I have an overactive imagination from working with you."

"Your thoughts?" Sherlock repeated, more sternly.

John sighed. "There's a bruise on his left calf."

"Which means...?" Lestrade probed.

"He was kicked, hard enough to make him fall," said Sherlock, "hence his palms."

"His hair is loose in one section," said John.

"Been grabbed roughly. As has his ear."

"A bruise on his hand – it's been stood on, to pin him to the floor."

"Voila; one snapped neck. You're looking for someone with martial arts experience. About 5'8", younger and far slighter than the victim. Fiery temper. Good luck in catching him; I expect the arrest will be very... 'claws-out'." Sherlock almost smiled at the thought. "John, do we need milk?"

"We usually do," replied John, dryly. He straightened up, and removed the latex gloves he had worn.

"Good. I want to cook this evening."

"Ah," said John, less than enthusiastically. "What are we having?"

"Lasagne."

John's expression lightened. "That can't go too badly. Sounds good."

"From scratch."

John's expression returned to a slightly pained grimace. "Have you ever done that before?"

"No," replied Sherlock, crisply. "Why?"

"The white sauce will be interesting, won't it?"

"Quite potentially."

**Discussing cuisine at a crime scene... oh yes.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Had lots of fun writing this chapter; I hope you enjoy reading it! 18/12/2011.**

**Disclaimer: I own an abused oven, many secrets, and an over-active imagination. I don't own the characters. Sob.**

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><p><span>Four Varieties Of Mustard<span>

The buzzer requesting entry to the flat sounded, and John hurriedly answered it.

"Hello?"

'I know the code, but wanted to do this formally. More socially acceptable, you know.'

John buzzed Mycroft up with a look of resignation on his face, complete with slight eye twitch.

"John? Who is it?" Sherlock called, from the kitchen.

"Your brother."

"Eurgh."

Mycroft strode into the flat; his suit immaculate and his umbrella swinging proudly. "Have fun in the morgue?"

"Er... yes, I suppose," replied John, unsure of how to correctly answer the question.

"Glad to hear it. Where is my darling brother?"

"Kitchen."

Concern flickered over Mycroft's face. "Ah."

In a gust of smoke, Sherlock emerged from the kitchen, wearing yellow rubber gloves and Mrs Hudson's flower-printed apron. "Mycroft."

"Do you want me to...?" John gestured towards the kitchen.

"What? No. The white sauce is under control, thank you, John."

"Anyway, I'd like to speak to you, Dr Watson," said Mycroft, self-importantly.

"Oh?" John looked surprised and even a little thoughtful.

Sherlock's eyes slitted dangerously. He was still holding a smoking whisk.

The smoke alarm went off.

John swore and grabbed a cushion from the sofa. He proceeded to flap it wildly at the shrill alarm, whilst the Holmes brothers watched him with identical expressions of interest on their faces.

Luckily, the alarm soon stopped, and John put the cushion back down.

"You were saying?" he inquired.

"Hmm? Oh. Yes." Mycroft was smirking a little, as though he had never seen such alarm-stopping antics before. "I was speaking to-"

"Why didn't you just shoot it?" Sherlock interrupted, bluntly, to his flat-mate.

"Because normal people don't shoot fire alarms," said John, pointedly.

Sherlock shrugged.

"I was speaking to our mother," said Mycroft, ignoring his younger brother. "She is most curious to meet you, John. She has invited you over with us for Christmas dinner."

"Oh, God, no," said John, without thinking. He clapped his hand to his mouth after the realization that he had spoken aloud.

Sherlock actually giggled.

"What I mean to say is, ah... I wouldn't want to intrude on a family event," John corrected himself.

"You wouldn't be intruding," said Mycroft, benignly. "In fact, Mummy was most insistent."

The smoke alarm sounded again, and this time, Sherlock took it upon himself to wave his whisk in front of it until it stopped. He looked positively smug at his achievement.

John's mouth began to open and close repeatedly of its own accord, utterly unsure of what to say. "Well, I... Um...?"

"Well?"

"Umm..."

The smoke alarm sounded again.

Sherlock threw his whisk down, and it bounced off the arm of the sofa onto the floor. He pulled John's revolver from the pocket of Mrs Hudson's apron, and shot the smoke alarm with little accuracy. Two more shots, and the shrill beeping stopped.

John's mouth hung open in dismay.

Mycroft looked faintly displeased at the ceiling dust on his suit.

Mrs Hudson banged on the door of the flat, cursing Sherlock colourfully.

"He'll pay for it to be replaced, Mrs Hudson!" John called back, placating their landlady, who returned downstairs.

"So. John. Christmas dinner?" Mycroft pressed.

"Sure. Why not?" said John, mentally stabbing himself repeatedly.

"Perhaps you'll even enjoy it," said Mycroft, mysteriously.

"I doubt it," said Sherlock, sourly, picking up his abandoned whisk. "Excuse us, Mycroft; I think dinner might be ready."

"Being creative again?" Mycroft inquired of his brother. "I thought you'd have learnt by now. I'm surprised that the throwing knife 'dartboard' didn't end up worse."

"What? What? _What?_"

"Calm down, John. I... grazed Anderson. Slightly," explained Sherlock.

"You grazed... That's why he hates you!"

"Perhaps. It's a bit hazy, actually..."

"So," said Mycroft, "you'll both be there at 11.30am? Sherlock, don't be late. And dress sensibly. Be sober."

"I always dress well!" Sherlock objected, hands on flower-printed hips.

Mycroft surveyed him through critical eyes, and made a disbelieving noise in his throat. "Of course. Emphasis on the 'sober' part, though."

Sherlock eyed him steadily, but did not offer an explanation to John. He sat down on the sofa, legs stretched out upon the seat.

"Please." Mycroft tone left no arguments. He swung his umbrella briefly, before turning on his heel and walking to the door. "Bring her proper flowers this time; not ones you've picked from her garden."

"They were from the neighbour's," Sherlock muttered, as the door snapped shut.

"So... dinner?" John inquired, after a while.

"Try and salvage it while I call for a Chinese," Sherlock requested, pulling out his mobile.

"Sounds good," agreed John, as he battled through great clouds of smoke to take the 'lasagne' out of the oven.

"How's it looking?" Sherlock demanded, his finger hovering over the 'call' button.

"Like... a piece of dead, rotten tree," admitted John, sounding mildly awed as well as revolted.

"Fascinating. Don't throw it out." Sherlock held the phone to his ear. "Yes, hello. 221B Baker Street. We'd like..."

Christmas at the Holmes' couldn't be over soon enough, mused John, as he opened all of the windows in the flat as wide as they could go.

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><p><strong>Thoughts?<strong> xx


	8. Chapter 8

**Saw the new Sherlock Holmes film last night, very much enjoyed it! And the new Sherlock series starts on New Years Day! That will ease my hangover! I regret that this is the last chapter of this particular story, but hopefully you'll all forgive me, as it has Christmas with the Holmes family! Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing concerning characters. I own a large pile of old Kerrang magazines and a very naughty motorbike.  
><strong>

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><p>Sherlock -wearing a paper hat and a reindeer-print jumper- was glaring steadily across the large table at his elder brother, who matched his expression with equal intensity.<p>

Mycroft had a garden gnome -mud-splatted, naturally- and a self-help CD next to his glass of wine. It was staring adoringly up at him.

Sherlock had a tin of mushy peas, a can of oxygen, and an electronic cigarette in front of him.

Suffice to say, neither brother had appreciated the gifts received from the other.

Sherlock's pink paper crown slipped down over one eye, but he appeared not to notice.

"You two are awfully quiet," noted Mrs Holmes.

Mycroft forced a smile. "I never know quite what to say when receiving a gift from my favourite brother-"

"I'm your only brother," Sherlock snapped. "But thank you for the zombie figure, Mummy. It's lovely. Isn't it, John?"

John finally tore his eyes away from the green-grey-skinned, meticulously detailed, resin lawn ornament, which featured a life-size undead man from the armpits up, clawing his way back to life. Sherlock had insisted on putting it on the chair next to John. Quite frankly, it terrified him, and he didn't want it in the same country as himself, let alone next to him. It was worse than the skulls already at Baker Street. "The detail is exquisite," John offered.

Sherlock caressed the head affectionately, oblivious to John's discomfort. "What did you get from Mummy, Mycroft?"

Mycroft held up a roll of sudoku-printed toilet paper, smiling cheerfully.

"I know how you like your puzzles, darling," said Mrs Holmes, happily.

"You know me too well, Mummy. Did you like your gift?"

"You shouldn't spend so much money on your silly old Mummy," Mrs Holmes scolded him, good-naturedly. "But the necklace is very beautiful, thank you."

"Sherlock and I clubbed together," Mycroft lied, smoothly. "I said that I would buy the necklace, if he brought you flowers." He eyed the wreath that had been hanging on the door to 221 Baker Street with mild distaste. Mrs Hudson would not be happy that Sherlock had pilfered it.

"It's a beautiful wreath," said Mrs Holmes. "Did you make it yourself, Sherlock?"

"It was a project with my landlady," said Sherlock. "She likes to spend time with John and I. Occasionally, we knit."

John swallowed to contain a snigger.

"How lovely!" Mrs Holmes cooed. "And who is the baker of Baker Street?"

Mrs Hudson had baked them a selection of festive biscuits and gift-wrapped it to take to Mrs Holmes, insisting that 'home-made was best... better than those petrol station chocolates, at least'.

"That would be me," said Sherlock, ducking his head as though being modest. "John wrapped it."

John eyed the large ribbons tied in extravagant bows with something akin to caution.

"Your cooking has improved since last week, then?" Mycroft inquired of his younger brother, failing to keep the smirk from his face.

"Considerably."

"Have you fitted a new smoke alarm yet?"

"Needed a new battery, is all," replied Sherlock, breezily.

"Did the old one die of natural causes or did you blow it into the attic?"

"Boys," Mrs Holmes chided, sounding tired.

John took a sip of water, eyes on anything but the other occupants of the room, and the zombie.

No wonder Sherlock and Mycroft were eccentric – the Holmes family home was a large, Gothic mansion, the sort that belonged in old films. There were creepy ancestor paintings on the walls, and the ceilings were quite incredibly high. There were actual _corridors_.

Mrs Holmes had taken John on a short tour of the house while Sherlock and Mycroft bickered on arrival.

Mycroft's old bedroom was military-neat, with three identical umbrella stands, made of expensive, highly polished oak wood. There was a stack of briefcases in the corner of the room, all precisely the same, with a pair of night-vision goggles atop of them. A large telescope was assembled, pointing out of the large window, with an astronomy book perched upon an artists easel beside it.

Sherlock's room was a teenage Goth's wet-dream; various life-size skulls lined up along the window sill, the large desk, the wardrobe, and about twenty were perched on the wall-filling bookcase, both atop it, and as dividers. The other walls each had an ornamental sword hung on it. The desk was littered with crumpled cigarette packets, discarded lighters, an ancient mobile phone charger, newspaper clippings, and hundreds of pages of handwritten and typed notes; mostly conspiracy theories and solutions to previously unsolved crimes. On the floor, to the side of the wardrobe, was a still-wrapped gift -clearly a globe of the world- with the tag: '_To Brother Dearest; An Introduction To __Geography__._'

Mrs Holmes was a strange woman; homely-looking with a sweet-natured, slightly rounded face, but had an almost fierce look in her eyes at times. Her body language was confident; in the set of her shoulders and the angle of her chin. Her gaze was fairly intimidating. She didn't seem like the kind of woman you would want to cross. John was thoroughly creeped out by 'Mummy'.

John took another sip of water, and prayed to go home.

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><p>Four hours, two broken plates, one smashed ornamental skull, and a broken umbrella stand later, and Sherlock and John were back at Baker Street, enduring Mrs Hudson's wrath for stealing the wreath that she had lovingly made to 'create festive cheer in these depressing times'. Sherlock offered her a box of chocolates he had bought from a petrol station, and a bottle of home-made mulled wine given to him by his mother. Suffice to say, they were then allowed back into their flat, though Mrs Hudson eyed the zombie bust with great aversion.<p>

John and Sherlock collapsed onto the sofa, with identical sighs.

After five minutes of silence, Sherlock turned his head to face his flat-mate. "John?"

"Hmm?"

"Where's my Christmas present?"

John snorted. "We agreed that buying presents for each other was stupid."

"Just testing you," said Sherlock, with a small smile.

"Why, what did you get me?"

"Oh, nothing at all. Really. Just testing."

John said nothing for a while, but then dug his hand down the side of the sofa, and pulled out a small, neatly-wrapped present. He tossed it over to Sherlock, who caught it deftly and enthusiastically. "It's Gallium. Enjoy."

Sherlock ripped off the paper, and held the solid crystal in the palm of his hand. He watched it with unwavering interest as his body heat caused it to slowly melt into a silverly puddly in his hand. "Good present. Very good present." He tipped it onto a clean plate, and it froze back into a solid. "Anything else?"

John passed him a cookery book with a bow tied around it. "With proper instructions."

"I prefer the Gallium," said Sherlock.

"Where's my present, then?" John inquired.

Sherlock rummaged down the side of the sofa, and pulled out a book entitled: 'The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People: Powerful Lessons in Personal Change'.

John's eyes narrowed. "You're serious?"

"Perhaps you'll find it enlightening."

"Merry Christmas, Sherlock."

"And to you, John."

**FIN.**

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><p><strong>Hope you liked it! Love to everyone who has reviewed, alerted, favourited, lurked around this story! Twas never a hassle to write or create ideas for. Merry Christmas!<strong> Over and out. xxxx


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